


Working at Christmas Time

by TelWoman



Series: Stories written as Christmas gifts [5]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: Working through the Christmas and New Year period can be frustrating. Particularly if you've been given an unnecessarily complicated task.
Series: Stories written as Christmas gifts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/613243
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	Working at Christmas Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Twelfth Night Challenge at eroicaml at groups.io. Twelfth Night doesn't get a mention, but the boys do use up ten of the twelve days of Christmas getting this job done.

Bonham did not normally look frazzled. 

Expert logistician, skilled trouble-shooter, inventive problem-solver, the level-headed Bonham had been Dorian’s rock and fortress for as long as they’d worked together, the steadying influence that kept the team focused. Right now, he didn’t look like any of those things.

“Forgive me for sayin’ it, m’lord - but I reckon it was a mistake to leave James in charge o’ the job. I don’t mean no criticism o’ you, m’lord – I know you said it was ‘is area of expertise, bein’ a sale and placement matter – but we ‘ave ‘ad a time of it.”

Wordlessly, Dorian offered Bonham a very large brandy.

“Thank you, m’lord. Don’t mind if I do.” Bonham gulped down a large mouthful and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, while the brandy’s luscious burn relaxed his throat.

Dorian waited until Bonham’s eyes flickered open. “All right, Bonham love. I think you’d better tell me what happened.”

They arrived at their destination later at night than they’d intended. The traffic had been impossible. Then, they had trouble finding somewhere to stay. James had not booked any accommodation in advance, insisting that they would be able to find somewhere suitable if they tried hard enough. 

They asked at two motels, a bed-and-breakfast, a backpackers’ hostel – no luck. It was the same at each place: “Sorry, we’re full. It’s the time of year. No rooms available. Sorry.”

“No room at the inn,” Beck remarked darkly after their fourth disappointment. “Probably appropriate, seeing it’s Christmas.”

“Typical James! Too mean to pay a booking deposit,” grumbled Jones. “I’ll have a piece of him when we get back.”

“My worry,” commented Bonham, “is where we’re goin’ to end up. Our customer’s representatives need to be able to find us if they’re goin’ to pay us.”

James’s plans for the payment and handover, in Bonham’s opinion, were over-complicated. 

_“You have to get the money first!”_ James had insisted. _“So when you get to your accommodation, call the number I’ve given you and let them know the address. They’ll bring the payment. Then – and only then! – you’ll give them the box that has the item in it.”_

Bonham had felt annoyed at James for referring all the time to “the item”, as if it was a big secret.

 _“So this bit of sparkly Russian tat,”_ he’d said, intent on annoying James; _“you’ll ‘ave it sealed up in the box, ready to pass on? I ‘ope I can open it first, so I can check the thing before we ‘and it over.”_

James had been furious at Bonham for insisting on having some degree of control over the transaction.

 _Too bloody bad,_ Bonham had thought at the time. _All ‘e’s doin’ is chuckin’ is weight around, makin’ ‘imself look important because ‘Is Lordship put ‘im in charge. If ‘Is Lordship ‘ad been in charge ‘imself, we wouldn’t ‘ave to put up with all this foolin’ around._

(Dorian had, in fact, been spending Christmas in Italy, as the guest of Don Volovolonte – strengthening old friendships, and visiting art galleries that he might want to re-visit in a professional capacity later in the New Year.)

The fifth place they tried was an up-market guest house, a luxuriously renovated mid-Victorian mansion at the end of a winding cul-de-sac.

“No, no rooms available, I’m afraid,” the Concierge said. “Christmas, you know. Time of high demand.”

Bonham was too exhausted to feel disappointed. “Right. Thanks. Come on, lads.”

“Wait a minute.” The Concierge called them back to the counter. He glanced around furtively, in case someone was there to overhear. “Look, you won’t find anywhere round here at this time of night on Christmas Eve, but I could let you have the old chauffeur’s flat. It’s out the back, over the garage. Nobody’s lived in it for years, but the electricity’s still connected, and it’s still furnished. There’d be room for you all. Fifteen quid a night each? Cash?” 

Bonham looked round at the others. He was answered by weary nods. 

“All right, we’ll take it. “

The flat had that musty shut-up smell, and there was a thick layer of dust on all the surfaces, but the beds weren’t too bad, and the three of them were dog-tired, so they slept soundly enough.

Next morning, Beck – who was fussy about which brand of tea he drank – produced some teabags from his duffel bag and shared them with the others. Thus fortified, Bonham and Jones set out to find them all something to eat. The Concierge had made it plain the previous night that as “unofficial extras” staying in the flat over the garage, they couldn’t expect to get any food from the kitchens. 

_‘E might’ve done us a good deed lettin’ us stay ‘ere,_ Bonham thought, _but ‘e ain’t puttin’ ‘imself out any further. ‘E won’t want ‘is boss knowin’ we’re ‘ere because ‘e’s pocketin’ the money._

Bonham walked down to the nearby high street, but it was a fruitless journey. All the shops were closed. There was no food to be had. Gloomy and hungry, he trekked back to the flat to break the bad news to Beck. 

Jonesy, meanwhile, had struck out for the edge of town, where he thought he’d seen a petrol station and a small cluster of shops on their way in. Surely he’d get something there, even on Christmas Day? 

Jones was gone for quite a long time, and Beck had begun to speculate that he might have hitched to some distant locale in search of food and was now having trouble getting a lift back, when he heard the sound of several sets of boots tramping up the stairs, and the door was thrown open. 

“Merry Christmas!” Jones crowed, coming into the kitchen with a large cloth-covered hamper in his arms, and three other young men crowded in behind him, similarly laden. A riot of spicy and savoury aromas spilled out into the air. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce the Shepherd brothers – Dave, Jim, and Ernie. Lads, I’d like you to meet my mates – Bonham and Beck.”

Hands were shaken. The Shepherd brothers ranged in age from early to late twenties, sandy-haired amiable fellows who, it turned out, ran a bakery near the edge of town. 

“We weren’t open,” Dave Shepherd explained, as he divided a steak and kidney pie into sections. “We were cleaning up the place ready to open again tomorrow. Then your mate here turned up and we thought we might as well help you out.”

The Shepherds stayed all day. They were good company, and the food they’d brought had made Christmas Day seem a lot brighter.

Boxing Day dawned, bright and frosty.

Bonham tried once again to get in contact with the customer’s representatives, to arrange for payment and the delivery of the artefact they were carrying. _The Item._

As it had the previous night, the phone rang out.

Mid-morning, two of the Shepherds turned up again, once more bearing gifts from their bakery. “We left Ernie in charge. Won’t be much trade this morning,” Dave said brightly, and he and his brother Jim settled in to spend the day.

The last days of December passed. Still the customer’s representatives failed to answer the phone, so Bonham, Beck and Jones remained anchored to their accommodation. The Shepherds turned up every day, bringing food, coffee, beer, and newspapers. 

They all celebrated New Year’s Eve together, watching through the windows to see the town’s fireworks display visible above the rooftops. The Shepherds had brought champagne, and the six of them toasted the New Year before Dave and Ernie stumbled happily off home. Nobody seemed to know where Jim had got to. Or Beck, for that matter.

Bonham allowed himself a sleep-in on New Year’s Day. He wandered out to the kitchen mid-morning, seeing the world through a residual champagne fog, and found Jonesy brewing a pot of coffee. 

“This can’t go on,” Bonham pronounced. “All this waitin’ round. It’s James’s fault, comin’ up with these complicated arrangements. Sellin’ off goods oughta be done fast and clean. Every minute we ‘ang around ‘ere, we’re exposin’ ourselves to danger. The longer this takes, the more likely somethin’ will go wrong.” 

Jones placed a mug of strong coffee in front of him. “It’s a bit out of the ordinary,” he agreed. “Can’t say I’m all that comfortable with it.” He sipped his own coffee. “It’s a wonder someone hasn’t noticed we’re staying here in the flat, what with all the coming and going.”

“Mmm,” agreed Bonham. “And if it wasn’t for the Shepherds, we’d be starvin’ to death by now.”

Jones nodded toward the passageway that led to the bedrooms. “Speaking of the Shepherds—”

Bonham turned around to see Beck, happy and sleep-rumpled, coming into the kitchen with Jim Shepherd, who also looked very contented and not quite awake yet.

“So that’s where they got to,” Bonham muttered. “I ‘ope this don’t lead to complications.”

However, Jim Shepherd left as soon as he’d had breakfast, tripping off with a spring in his step to reassure his brothers that he was alive and well. 

Around midday, Bonham made another attempt to contact the customer’s representatives – and this time, the phone was answered. 

“Location?” was all the voice said. 

Bonham gave the address, emphasizing that they were in the chauffeur’s flat behind the guest house, and the back gate would be the appropriate way in. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Jones, as the phone call ended. “Now we wait.”

Late in the afternoon, a van pulled into the yard. “V.K. & L.G. Wyse, Electrical Contractors,” announced the lettering on the side of the van – and underneath it, ringed by a cartoon-like speech balloon: “Electrical problem? A Wyse man has the answer!” 

The vehicle parked beside the end of the building, and three men got out.

Jones, watching out of the window, snorted with amusement. “The three Wyse men.”

The three Wyse men clattered up the stairs, knocked on the door, and were let in. The two groups looked warily at each other. 

“Bin tryin’ to get you on the phone since Christmas Eve,” Bonham said. “I was startin’ to think we ‘ad the wrong number.”

One of the Wyse men shrugged. “We had a long way to come,” he said. “We must have been out of phone range.”

“Anyway,” said another, “we’re here now, and we’re ready to do business.” He placed a much-used canvas sports bag on the table, and unzipped it. The faded canvas fell back to reveal a stack of gold bars.

“The agreed price,” the third Wyse man said, “in gold bullion, as specified.”

The gold was duly counted and weighed. 

Bonham produced the wooden box they’d been guarding all this time, and prised open the lid. Inside, well-protected by cotton wadding, lay an antique platinum brooch as broad as a man’s hand, cunningly crafted in the shape of a seven-pointed star, blazing with diamonds set so thickly that the brooch seemed to generate light of its own.

“The Orlov Star,” Bonham said, “also known as the Star of Wonder. Given to Catherine the Great by Count Grigory Orlov.” 

_The Item._

The first of the Wyse men donned cotton gloves and lifted it out. He turned it over carefully. He fitted a jeweller’s loupe to his eye, and peered at the jeweller’s marks stamped into the metal. He nodded, satisfied. The box was sealed up, and the three men, the customer’s representatives, took it away with them. 

Bonham zipped up the sports bag. “Right, lads – we can go home. At last.” He looked out of the window at the gathering dusk. “Though we might as well get a decent night’s sleep an’ go in the mornin’. No point in tearin’ off in the dark. So let’s ‘ave a bite to eat.” 

They were just settling down to their meal when they heard someone panting up the stairs.

“Who’s that now? They’re in a hurry.” Jones opened the door, and the Concierge bundled into the room, looking flustered.

“You all have to leave!” he babbled. “Straight away! The owner, Mr Harrod – he’s coming home tonight! He’s been in Majorca, but he’s cut short his holiday and he’ll be here in a couple of hours! You mustn’t let Harrod find you, or there’ll be hell to pay! And I’ll get the sack for letting you stay here!”

“Calm down,” Bonham soothed. “We can be out of ‘ere within an hour. Don’t worry about it.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of notes, and handed the Concierge an extra day’s payment. “We’ll be gone without a trace, and your boss’ll be none the wiser.” 

He closed the door after the Concierge. “Sorry, lads. Looks like we will be tearin’ off in the dark after all.”

When Bonham had finished his tale, Dorian refilled his glass and poured a large measure for himself. 

“I see what you mean, Bonham love. It does seem to have been unnecessarily complicated. I’ll speak to James if you like.”

“Too late now, m’lord. It’s all over with, and it all worked out in the end. The customer got the jewellery, and nothin’ bad ‘appened, not really.” He sipped his second brandy. “I ‘ope your Christmas went well, m’lord.”

Dorian smiled a crafty smile. “Very well indeed, thank you, Bonham. In fact, I felt inspired to go back to Italy very soon. Perhaps tomorrow morning you could get the boys together so we can discuss some of the places I’d like us all to visit. And this time, I’ll handle the sale and placement myself.”


End file.
